Something about the Open Road
by Oro
Summary: "We may be on this road but we're just imposters in this country, you know."


Something About the Open Road

Author: Oro

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Sorkin's.

Notes: I wrote this fic for my sixteenth birthday. Which is today (June 12). It gave me hell and now it's over. BJ and Tahlia: vous êtes très glam. Title courtesy de Tori Amos.

She comes to accept - after a long period of kicking and screaming and after ten whole Haagen Dazs-induced pounds - that it is over. It comes to her consciousness during a lonely walk along the Potomac, and she decides that it must be for the best. She bursts out laughing, suddenly, delirious at the sound of her own voice. When the cold air of freedom hits her; her laughter turns into tears; the tears she never did cry the day of her last press briefing, or when she cleared out her desk, or when she hugged her friends and said goodbye. She hasn't cried, actually, until this very moment; as all that weight dissolves from her shoulders, making room for nothing but a vacuous hole, its edges burning inside of her, devouring deeper and deeper into her core with every brush of wind against her bare back. The crying stops eventually and acceptance sinks in, quietly settling in the fresh space; gently, as though it doesn't want to impose on anyone, but intrusively so. (Much, she thinks bitterly, like her own mother; why must that vile woman push her way into one's mind whenever something important happens?) – But she hangs on to that thought of her mother to regain some composure. She wipes her tears. The Bartlet administration is over. You are no longer Press Secretary. It's time to leave.

That she would be strong – was all she thought about when the (former) President of the United States embraced her, pulling her tightly onto his flesh, his scent. He told her to be strong and she made the shy promise; they exited the West Wing of the White House, surrounded by bodyguards, and it all suddenly became very surreal. She idly thought then that it would all be the same, though she knew it wouldn't be – never be, and she hasn't been back there ever since. She's heard some of them have: Carol is now working for a very promising senator, she knew, and during those first two months she would call her former employer often; it's stopped now. She knew by his name in the paper that Danny hasn't changed, and had she been a lesser person, she would've been disappointed to discover that. Sam, Ginger, and Nancy McNally: she used to be able to remember where each and every one of these people she used to work with has gone, but these facts have all molded together into a big blur in her mind. Everyone said they'd keep in touch, and she's never been good at that, and the whole administration's scattered over the continent; her official excuse is that it's hard. Her actual reasoning is that she can't imagine what to say to them. She still hasn't convinced herself regarding either.

And it seems much darker than it really is, as she drives further on up the road towards an unknown location, and even though she should be more concerned regarding her whereabouts, she isn't; because you can never be lost if you don't know where you're going. She drives the way she's been living for the past seven months, fifteen days, four hours and twenty-six minutes; on auto-pilot, as if she knows where she's headed and has driven on this road many, many times. It occurs to her, as she passes a very small town (apparently in Maryland) and watches the light as it begins to change, that it's always someone else doing the driving: the pilot on Air Force One, campaign bus driver, taxi driver. She is a capable woman of many talents, but most of her driving has always been done from home to work, and back. She begins to feel her fingers, feel the way the blood is driven in them like electricity: tiny tides underneath her skin. It seems like a new level of awareness; something that has always been there but is now enhanced, maybe by circumstances and maybe by a divine interference, this new feeling of acceptance bubbling into her bowels. Has she really been through a process of shedding her layers of mental defense, or has she finally gone over the edge and lost her mind? – She'll enjoy the surge, for now. It faintly feels like it did during the campaign: new and exciting, like personal growth of a sort.

CJ finds herself in the smallest Bed & Breakfast in the history of mankind, called the Phoenix Risin' Bed & Breakfast; it has three rooms, every one of which contains a bed and a bathroom, which is all she needs, for the time being. She pays in $10 bills. She enters her miniature room and sighs, because she could've done better had it not been for her lousy sense of direction, and had she reserved a room someplace else. Taking a shower, she finds herself succumbing to the warm liquid, letting it burn her flesh; she marvels that this extravagance can be found in a place like this. It's only when she dries herself that she realizes she's packed nothing; she'll have to take care of that in the morning. She lays down on the bed, naked, allowing the light breeze streaming from the semi-open window cool her skin; she listens to the clutter as the city of Baltimore comes to life, and she knows that while not making much sense, this is one of those things that had to be done. She falls asleep, the city noises setting the rhythm to her silent lullaby.

(She'll dream of when she finds nobody to wake her, not even an alarm clock; she'll hate her body for still not getting used to more than three hours' worth of sleep; she will dream of not having to bear this new life without him, without any of them; her inner compass will point north: she'll unconsciously decide to follow that little arrow. Then she'll wake up.)

Without him; the words play on her lips as she opens her eyes, and she wonders why she is not yet rid of the thoughts of alternative history, of everything that would've happened had she been his one. She watches her body as it responds to the swell of her lungs, mesmerized, not wanting to get out of bed. Wondering why, after all that time, he's automatically on her mind without her ever meaning for it to be that way; he doesn't call anymore and neither does she, and she doubts the thought of her – of them – crosses his mind. They parted hastily under the surprisingly warm sun, to the sounds of a car horn and two toddlers playing; a kiss on the cheek and well, I have to go now so have a nice life and yeah, you too. She could spend the entire day in bed, she thinks, just looking at her own body as it tenses and releases in defined, rhythmic motions, maybe hallucinate a sweet fantasy that will forever be a secret between her and the depressing wallpapers of this room.

She blinks once, and twice, until her pupils minimize into two tiny, black dots, allowing her eyes to process the world through the bright afternoon light that penetrates the room. It seems more intrusive than it would've had this room been anything else, anything other than a small room in a three-room Bed & Breakfast called the Phoenix Risin', like a bad 80s song that tries to sound cool but never really reaches that point, and there's the quiet gut feeling that something must be terribly wrong with everything she touches. The thought of him has tainted the previous night's revelation, and everything seems wretched now, spoiled, murkily soaking in light and dust. Getting up gingerly, she tries to locate the previous day's clothes, which she feels embarrassed about wearing a second day in a row. You never get rid of the feeling that you'll be having your picture taken four times a day, and that you always have to be composed and well-dressed, hiding your feelings from the public eye, the secrets, the being lied to; she never did and she's still mastering these qualities. She decides to go buy some new clothes later to cover up the disgrace of wearing the same outfit two days in a row. (Still used to covering things up.)

(She'll spend $20 on food and $145 on clothes she'll probably never again wear; halfway from Ann Taylor to her car, time will catch up on her and she'll ask herself what the hell she's doing and how she's gotten herself into depending on these strange streets to provide her immediate needs, depending on a strange bed for semi-tranquil slumber. Feeling three times her age, she'll trot towards the car as though her life depend on leaving this city, with its simple feel and tidal manners; her knees will slightly weaken when she gets there.)

Making her way out of the city, she drives by the shore. It feels as though, if she'll take more than a second's glance at the ocean, the azure will engulf her wholly; she keeps her eyes constantly on the road, but secretly laughs at herself – for trying to prevent enslavement to the blue by focusing on this strange obsession of a drive. Neither will provide the answers she needs if she doesn't have the tools to ask the questions. It's what made her go on this insane voyage; maybe in New York City she'll find the voice she's looking for, the sound of these answers uttered in someone else's voice, or maybe just for the sake of sentiment. She's yet to admit that she's looking for him but she shyly looks for courage to do so. She sings to the radio and laughs bitterly, comparing her younger self to the girl from Ipanema: a tall ephemeron only few end up remembering. She hopes he hasn't forgotten yet – it's these things, it's knowing that you're loved, that ends up keeping you behind the fragile borders of sanity – she wonders if maybe she's already lost it. Loneliness and self-disappointment join the confused mix of her thoughts, and if she could just focus on the music and the road, it seems like everything will be fine. She sings along to Bruce Springsteen.

And it feels like sickness: knowing exactly where she's going but having no idea as to what's happening. She's simultaneously free and claustrophobic, and she's lost her mind way before she started this, whatever this is; she was already insane when she decided to come with him when he told her to. She might've loved him back then and now it's turned into a sort of an addiction, maybe, a default; she hasn't seen him or spoken to him in so long, in a real conversation with words they really meant to say. They started to lose contact before the Bartlet administration ended, a psychological preemptive strike to avoid further pain. She's making an idiot out of herself in trying to solely patch up a disintegrating relic of something that was never there, but maybe it'll all be worth it if her touch gives it life.

The ocean view dissipates into highway surroundings without her paying attention; when she finally does notice, it's only after almost hitting the car in front of her and cursing four o'clock traffic. The car horn enters her brain like a siren and she closes her eyes in an attempt to make the associations go away, or at least telepathically stop this horrid cacophony. She opens her eyes when the noise stop, and in the traffic jam she tries to play the license plate game (which doesn't seem to work, as she can only read the plate in front of her so many times: a Virginia license plate, 1016FL, with the Wildflowers – she tries to remember if they won there; they did). She remembers it worked better on the campaign bus, because everyone had their different associations back then – when did they mesh into one another, exactly? She remembers not flinching at the sound of broken glass, or car horns, and not thinking on whether or not they won Virginia – it seems so long ago; too long ago. The traffic jam loosens up and she's able to move forward; reminiscing is always so draining now, and it happens so often; maybe she doesn't remember as well as she thought she did, because everything begins to melt and blur into a mesh of words and scents she can remotely feel every now and then, when she's lucky enough.

As the sunset enwraps her part of the world in golden pink, purple and the beginning of velvety maroon and midnight blue, it is becoming all too clear that she's supposed to find a place to spend the night, or else she'll have to sleep in her car, or worse: get her ass to New York. She gets herself a humble shelter at the Park Hyatt – though there's no such thing, so basically what she has is the most unrelated thing to the place she spent the previous night in. Clad in the hotel bathrobe, everything around her seems to have a gold hue to it as she sits on the bed and tries to make herself comfortable in this fancy room, in which hot water is a necessity rather than an extravagance.

She bounces lightly on the bed, contemplating her situation. There are 1585577 people surrounding her in the city, in their homes and workplaces and schools and just on the streets, stores, restaurants. There's a famous museum with Degas art, Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, and a thirteen meter tall clothespin which right now would be too depressing to even look at. Bartlet was very popular there, in Pennsylvania, the first time, but dropped significantly after the MS scandal. They once spent a night there, in a much less fancy hotel than this, discussing what ifs and what if nots over liquor. And Josh said then, that this is the real thing with the real people, and that there's so much reality around them that it suddenly hits him who they were doing it for. His eyes shone in the dim bar, misty from the alcohol-induced tears and red from the sleep deprivation, and Donna patted gently on his shoulder and said in her practical, forgiving way that it's past her boss's bedtime and they'll see everyone in the morning. But CJ thought about it and decided that behind that drunken haze there's a certain _truth_, a reality; she shared an amused glance with Toby and that was it for the night. And she thinks now that she'd like to go out and meet those people again, because she's pretty sure now that there's nothing that keeps them away from you like eight years in the White House. Maybe it'll even do her good to get out.

There's a bar – there's always a bar – and an available stool for her, and she orders her grasshopper and the bartender doesn't care enough to give her filthy looks. There's also a guy who's willing to pay for her drink, and the look that hints that she should accept his invitation for fine alcohol and sex (the level of which she still hasn't decided by the way he looks). His name is David and he's very handsome, of course, with dark hair and grey eyes and a skin like hers, only not as bronzed by freedom and hours of being in the car under the surprisingly warm sunlight. Had he not been sitting down, he would've been tall, almost matching her height but not quite. They discuss mundane things like the weather and where she's coming from, and he tells her an anecdote from his lawyer life and she doesn't tell him an anecdote from anything, just listens and swallows down the free alcohol as he buys her another without a hitch. It would be so great to be drunk enough to forget everything and just screw this nice man's brains out, with his charcoal suit and burgundy tie that bring out the clearness of his light eyes; so great to wake up in the morning on a rented bed in an expensive hotel room, maybe alone but perhaps he'd like to spend the night. Being a lady of pleasures to be tossed out the next day or just reused, to ditch responsibilities with someone she doesn't know and pretend she's never done that before even though it's just been a while since the last time. He won't remember her – he doesn't seem to recognize her face; if he's ever seen her on television it was only as a background to his morning coffee or the evening news he watches in order to pretend he understands the fine elements of domestic policies, to have something to discuss with an interesting lady over drinks in this very bar, probably almost always in the very stool she's sitting on. When he offers to show her Independence Hall at night because she isn't local and it's so beautiful there at night, she doesn't refuse his invitation.

His car. Why, why his car? It's not of walking distance, no, and she wouldn't know the cab fare from bunnies, or whatever; but it's so awkward to be in his car and chatter nervously as her neurosis takes over, and she should probably be back at the golden hotel room that comes with its own bathrobe and television and a little soap bar, nicely wrapped and fresh smelling. She swallows down her nervousness and smiles like a big girl. She can be that person tonight. His car smells like his aftershave, or perhaps it's his aftershave that smells like the car, or just fills it wholly until there's barely room for her own scent and the car's original scent, and she plays with her fingers, lacing them together and letting go, and pulling one finger uncertainly and back straight, shoulders back, here we are at Independence Hall. He parks the car and she can tell he's been there one too many times because his body language is all too relaxed to communicate anything else. But it really is beautiful there.

The building is so tall and prime and of its time, and she flashes him an elegant grin as he explains the history of the place, his one hand tactically placed under her elbow and the other one the small of her back. The construction of the Pennsylvania State House, (now known as Independence Hall – he smiles), began in 1732. At the time it was the most ambitious public building in the thirteen colonies. It is considered the birthplace of the United States! She laughs flirtatiously, because she knows all that. She looks then, deep into his pale eyes, and she knows so much more than he does. About so many things. The President – former President – explained everything to her himself, she probably had the chance to forget everything twice and be told a third time. She doesn't tell David that, though, as he keeps on saying something about a tribute to the extraordinary minds that something-something, unforeseeable obstacles. She expects him to say 'the end,' but he doesn't. He just stops walking, and indicates her to stop as well. He tells her that she's beautiful, and she doesn't believe him. He kisses her then, the hand that was on her elbow moving up in a caress to touch her neck, his hand on her back bringing her closer to his body. His mouth tastes like alcohol, and his scent is becoming familiar.

(It's a matter of time until she breaks.)

He kissed her, that day on the beach, tasting like salt and smelling like a strange combination of sand and cigars, and him – Toby. The kids were busying themselves on a pica blanket, Molly holding a colorful plastic bucket, trying to make a sandcastle but coming up with a sandy hill for Huckleberry to sink his little fist in. And Toby's lips curling into a smile that turns into laughter over his children's sand-drama, and his kiss, after which he asked her to come with them. Because he's certain they can make it work, if only for a little while. There was a light breeze, but her hair still covered her eyes all the time; she still said no. She told him she couldn't follow him around anymore, and that was it; his laughter changed into something else, friendly still but just that, and she felt everything she had in her sinking lower and lower until it sank in the children's sandy architectural failure. They hugged, still, and goodbyed with sad, distant expressions. Huck plunged his entire arm into his sister's third failed attempt at a castle.

_We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, __Liberty__ and the pursuit of Happiness._

It's not that the words take on a new meaning now, but they apply so much, and her eyes are suddenly covered in what seems to be the beginning of the most unwelcome tears in the world, which she does her best not to spill. David lets go so abruptly, so suddenly, that she feels so disgusting and fake. His _who are you_ comes from such a distant place, she barely hears him. She's no longer charming, or sexy, or anything, probably, and she just wants everything to go away so she could curl up in a dark little corner and never have to deal with anything again.

She walks faster than she thought she could in high heels.

(She'll feel mean later, in retrospect, for having turned down the taxi driver's lively chatter a few blocks later. He drives her back to the hotel quietly, awkwardly, and she only leans her head against the glass window, looking at the streets without seeing them and not giving much of a damn about it.)

Packing, going back to grab some hotel shampoos, because, because, because – (it's what you do). Turn off the light. If she goes to him now, maybe he'll understand, maybe she'll regain the capacity to think clearly without the words coming out backwards with him, maybe. If she will – she could tell him it was a mistake for her to refuse, because. She'd like the ability to complete her thoughts; to have them materialize in mid-air so that she could touch it and embrace it and never let it go, since it's the loose ends and semi-completed thoughts that bother her the most. She stops at the doorway to see what she's forgotten. Always forgetting, leaving things behind when she doesn't mean to – that's good, she should tell him that, and stop looking for excuses if she really is going to do it. Breathe in. Breathe out. If she manages to breathe enough she could stop thinking about her life like a cheap romance novel you read on an airplane, when you wait for something real to happen. Eyes wide, pupils dark, with only the door opened slightly to dimly illuminate the room. This is it, isn't it? This is the real thing? –Turn on the light; eyes wide, pupils dilating to fit the illumination. She goes back to the bathroom and grabs the tiny soap bar. There's no turning back now.

She feels so squalid, so thief-like, having run away so shamefully from David and from the city, the state – from that achingly comfortable bed – and for what? Further humiliation? –She steadies her foot on the gas, her cold, sweaty hands on the wheel. It's suddenly very hot and very cold at once, and her gut feeling tells her she's making a horrible mistake. She knows it won't be like magic; that he probably didn't wait for her, and her stomach cringes at the thought of having to face his expression and her own insanity so quickly, so _suddenly_. It occurs to her that she should've known she'd grow to regret this, back then when her arms crushed against his chest and she lost her own shadow. She crosses states now without paying attention, looking for a metaphor trail of sand, past, kisses, a connection she used to have with someone that was more than what it was supposed to be by definition. Not love, surely, but at least empathy and a certain desire of his to spend time with her, and this unusual openness he presented when he stood before her and offered to make her a part of his world when he probably knew she'd refuse. She must've hurt him more than she's willing to admit – more than he's willing to admit – her heart sinks lower; he probably doesn't even like her anymore. She certainly wouldn't blame him if he doesn't.

(She'll end up driving around the city more than she means to; first in circles, contemplating regret and turning it down more times than she's able to count, and then losing her way three more times on the way to his apartment building. She won't ring the bell; just sit miserably in front of his door, trying to think of what to tell him and of a way to make herself seem anything but wretched, and tired, and old – even to make herself remotely attractive – she'll throw herself on the wall in a burst of emotions and slide down to the floor, silently crying herself to blessed unconsciousness.)

*

Toby Ziegler wakes up as early as five in the morning. He is so groggy; he only remembers he has the kids today after brushing his teeth and making a fresh pot of coffee. He turns on the television – CNN – then goes to the kids' rooms to wake them up. He smiles to himself; a proud, fatherly gesture he's accustomed himself to, at the familiar sight of Huck's blanket fortress and the way Molly's laying on her side, her own blanket tossed away. They wake up reluctantly, their little fingers brushing over their eyes and covering their mouths as they stifle yawns. He sends them to get dressed and goes to bring the paper. (Papers; he's still used to having about five of them delivered, still reads each and every one of them every morning.)

He didn't expect, when he opened the door, to see her; leaning against the wall, her hair tousled and long black mascara streaks running down her cheeks, and not for a second does it occur to him that she looks anything short of beautiful. His chest stings as the feelings he's managed to stifle rise a little bit too quickly. He stands there until she opens her eyes to look at him.

"You came," he says softly, the shadow of a sad smile playing on his lips. She can hear the kids' chatter from inside the apartment.

She looks at him, and it's probably the one time she doesn't mind crying in front of him.

END


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